It must be because of menopause that I am apt to cry recently. Rummaging in memories to write blogs, the peculiar moments when some minds shone and possessed me through my life; the minds which are different from the blunted ones by the humdrum of daily life find me these days.
It is the memory that didn’t end in moments but continued in my childhood about my father, giving me endless love like flowing water from a never-draught spring. Even from the time when my cognition wasn’t formed so I couldn’t remember to the time when he had to come under an unbearable yoke, befallen suddenly to my family, he gave me love that let me believe I was the center of the world. His compassion and love shrouded those days of my life like encompassing air; always warm but still very powerful. Looking like a plainly formed potato, I who was small, couldn’t understand his unending affection, thinking I didn’t deserve it.
Mom has two grandfathers; one is the father of mom’s mom and the other is the father of mom’s step-mother who died before mom's mom married her husband. A granddaddy with a Korean traditional hat walked more than dozens of miles on a unpaved road, strung with dust, fluttering draped Korean man’s antique-fashioned garment in the air, only to see his step-granddaughter who participated in field’s day in her school. It made me sadly and compassionately moved to think about his mind, considering dull-witted mom in her childhood who wouldn’t understand the purity of his intention. Though mom was not his bloodline at all, he went to see her with a deeper affection towards his step-granddaughter. The granddaddy’s heart still shines inside me even after years of two generations.
In the earlier days of their marriage, my parents made their living by running a small store in Daegu-Province. The grandfather came from a distance to see how his youngest son and his wife were living. Being very poor, mom had nothing only but a piece of rice cake so she served it to him. Grandfather stayed a while and left without touching the rice cake. Seeing it now, a rice cake is commonplace but knowing so well how his youngest son was living, grandfather wanted to save it for the family of his son. Sometimes, I reminisce about those days when there were nothing but their caring hearts to do for others in their provision.
My parents’ hometown is Yeocheon, an inland area in Gyeongbuk Province. During Korean War, North Korean soldiers reached the village, even though it was located in the far corner of the province. One winter day morning, when people went out, there was a student-looking young North Korean soldier who sat still and died that way as he seemed to sleep. I who was small cried at the story, perhaps because of indescribable sadness towards his death, showing his inevitable acceptance of his end.
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